


Cabinet Painting

by owlbeperfect



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artistic Tsukishima, Day One: Colour, Day Two: Scent, Drawing On Skin AU, Floral Nursery Manager, Floriography, Flower Language, M/M, This was such a good idea, UshiTsuki Week, UshiTsuki Week 2016, Writing On Skin AU, Writing On The Body AU, art student, i love this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6552268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbeperfect/pseuds/owlbeperfect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsukishima and his soulmate have only ever communicated through their skin. The thing is, they've never seen nor touched each other in their entire lives. Yet, every morning Tsukishima is greeted and his soulmate becomes his canvas. This seems to work out until Tsukishima stumbles across an ink splattered florist, although he claims he's a floral nursery manager, who's never drew art in his entire life. Only because he becomes it everyday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter's pretty short because it's just starting out

_I met my soulmate_

_Before I was conceived._

_We were nothing but Constellations_

_Composed of dying stars._

_Before the Supernovas consumed us,_

_He told me_

_“Don’t ever feel alone_

_In the years to come._

_You may have your doubts,_

_But we’ll collide again._

_They say the Universe is infinite,_

_But so is love.”_

_-A.M._

Dreams were Tsukishima’s favourite source of inspiration. As soon as he woke up, his pale hand was wrapped around the colourful body of any writing, drawing, or painting utensil he could find. Within minutes, he was crafting designs on the nearest surface- most commonly, his body.

Dark stains on his arm told of the many other dreams he had built upon his skin, collapsing in faded tones with time. Swaths of swirls and blooms, waves crashing into dragons, and people dancing under the hot, angry sun that reached out to strangle them.  They seemed to blend together in a crescendo of emotion built up upon years.

As his sleep hazed, earthen eyes flickered into sudden awareness, his hand latched around a set of blue and purple pens. Like a ritual that raised the sun, his hand drowsily dragged them across his stomach, the pattern of constellations forming under barely seen light. Time seemed to trickle on until finally, he set down the pens.

His hand brushed lightly over the drying form of a couple standing tall in each other’s grasp, face turned outward and stars melting from their eyes. The blue and purple blended into his skin as if they were an ever permanent bruise that gave life to the fading dream. Tsukishima tilted his head thoughtfully.

As if called, black ink appeared on his right arm, against his own will. ‘ _Good morning,_ ’ read in blunt, sharpie letters. He never coloured his right arm, but it was darkened with years of words from before he could even write.

He slid out of bed, long limbs landing gracefully upon a trash riddled floor. Rising to his feet, he stretched with a groan and ran a hand through his hair, his nails catching in the thick knots. Tsukishima pulled his boxers up properly and reached into his closet, climbing into a pair of jeans before heading into his kitchen, stumbling over a cluster of empty paint cans that had crept just out of sight.

Tsukishima grasped a most likely clean coffee cup and moved across the linoleum floor to his miniature refrigerator. With a tight grip around the metal handle, he watched the bold letters move and shift. Fawn eyes flickered as the black letter faded slightly before being replaced.

‘ _How are you?_ ’ Glistened like a newly refurbished tattoo. He pulled open the refrigerator to the sound of electric buzzing. The artificial light filtered out and around his chilled hand as he grabbed the large plastic bottle of orange juice The door slammed shut with slow squeak and the cap coming off of the drink. Liquid splashed up at him as he haphazardly poured himself a glass.

As soon as he returned the bottle, he reached across the counter for the yellow highlighter missing a cap. Beside the dark question, he replied, ‘ _Tired.’_ Leaving it at that, he chugged the sticky drink and began opening the curtains in his small apartment.

With the early morning light filtering more effectively, he turned and sat on the window edge. The clouded sun warmed his bare back, the freckled surface displaying a large tattoo of Lotus trapped in a cage of Viscaria that took over the entirety of his upper back.

The tattoo wasn’t his, of course. The closest he had ever had to a tattoo was the marks across his skin from numerous mornings in artistic frenzy. It was his soulmate’s, a nameless figure whose own body was splattered almost daily with unwarranted dreams that were not their own. The being who greeted him every morning and talked to him throughout the day.

No matter how he had suffered, though, some celestial being had prevented them from ever exchanging names or locations, the words going unseen. Tsukishima had always been told that they would find each other when they’re ready, but he’d been ready for a long time.

Those thoughts always lead to others, like, why did he even need a soulmate? Currently, his life was happy and fine. He was financially stable and doing well in school, he didn’t want any children either. It wouldn’t matter, at this point, if he ever met them. He was satisfied with the ink on their skins.

Tsukishima shifted, finishing the rest of his drink. The cup was returned to the counter and he set his hands together, stretching until his back made popping sounds. With a sigh, he released his grip and read the next set of letters across each finger. ‘ _Don’t go back to sleep,’_ obviously he wouldn’t. He had a class around two pm, today.

Thinking of what today was, he turned, the sun smacking him in the face. Leaves had been turning colours  and today was the official day for their arrival. Most had not fallen, yet, but continued to pull a coloured roof over the trees, whose dark bodies swayed in the breeze.

Tsukishima yawned and flashed his teeth in a grin, maybe it was okay to take a nap. He stood from the hard window sill, that had left red impressions on his skin. His phone was in the bathroom, completely charged, so he brought it with him.

Stepping much more easily around the mess of his rooms, he slipped back into bed. With the warm comforter cloaking him, he felt drowsy. Blurrily, he set a timer on his phone, eyes squinting against the too bright screen.

Finally, he rolled back over and pressed his side into the thick sheets, body floating in the half dream, half awake state. Before slipping into sleep, he remembered seeing a large, tan back, with only the Lotus and Viscaria tattoo breaking the pure, even skin. The sight lulled him into further dreams.


	2. Love Stinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be nice, this will be good

_ ser·en·dip·i·ty _

_ ˌserənˈdipədē/ _

_ noun _

_ Luck that takes the form of finding valuable or pleasant things that are not looked for _

 

In all aspects of life, you have to question, ‘if I hadn’t done that, would this have not happen?’ Tsukishima knew that he, himself, had thought that many times before. Despite that, he pursued his dreams and didn’t try to change the past, that was impossible. It’s only better to learn from it.

Except in this case, where he never seemed to learn that he couldn’t nap. His eyes had shot open to the flashing of his phone. The brilliant, flashing numbers screamed it was five minutes until two and his class took two minutes to get to, if he ran.

With unnecessary strength, he had thrown his covers off and slammed his head through the hole of a half buttoned, white shirt. Hopping around, slitting his feet into his loafers, he fixed his shirt and pulled a black sweater over it. Grabbing his bag, he slid through the kitchen, across newspapers and cardboard boxes.

Grunting, he slid into the counter and made for the front door. His feet found grip and his hands struggled to grab the key from the stand next to the door. His long, pale fingers deftly twisted the lock as it shut behind him, the red door chattering with a jarring slam. His heart raced, thumped, as he had he feet down the stairs, tripping.

He didn’t have time for the elevator in the rush. Tsukishima had his hands wrapped firmly around the slender metal railing, occasionally jumping it whenever he felt his legs weren’t moving fast enough. Four floors down, he hit the linoleum and was pacing past the lobbyist with a head turned.

Chilly Autumn air slipped past his sweater, drawing lines across his skin with greed. It stole his warmth and his breath, taking it in almost visible grasps. He shivered and continued, shoes slipping through dewy grass blades, off onto stoney gravel. The path weaved through campus, giving way to concrete sidewalks.

Tsukishima’s feet seemed to not even touch the ground as he sprinted, past the campus pond and over the bridge, the gurgle lulling. He had checked his watch over and over, time seeming to run faster than him. Luck seemed to gallop with him as he’d be just on time.

Luck was, obviously, not up to date with Fate, it seemed. Today, it dragged him further and further into a pit of despair. 

Not pay attention to his surroundings, Tsukishima had slammed into a man. He recognized him as the campus landscaper, who had occasionally collaborated with the art department. They, both, had fallen to the ground in his haste and Tsukishima’s books had scattered out of his bag.

He stood, quickly, trying to retrieve his belongings and shove them ruthfully back in his backpack, the papers scattered across the sidewalk in a collage of highlighter marks and pen doodles. His hands, nails jagged from constant use, reached for his things. He bumped shoulders with the landscaper joining him before pulling away, frowning. He swiped them away before anymore could be touched.

Standing, and brushing himself off, Tsukishima fixed his ruffled appearance. His bookbag was handed to him, papers neatly shoved back inside, and zipped. He turned to thank him and to apologize. The sun caught his eye, as if screaming for recognition. The air turned dramatically cold, the breeze freezing his water sodden shoes through his socks. 

Tsukishima shifted, hands clenched as time ticked by and he felt the entirety of space close in. He was most certainly going to be late to class, now. It was inevitable and he’d be better off spending it than wasting it. 

The worker turned to the sun as clouds turned over to cover it. He lifted front of his shirt to wipe his face off and bent over, hefting up a bag of fertilizer onto his shoulder. His muscles flexed and strained with the small effort, yet perspired in faint light. This attractiveness did not draw his attention, but his gaze still hung where his stomach was.

Glancing at his own stomach, Tsukishima gripped the fabric of his shirt tightly, as if trying to erase the memory. The image wasn’t leaving, it seemed, as the sight of a bruise-like drawing painted across the landscaper’s stomach drowned him.

Tsukishima looked away, taking a deep breath. “I’m Tsukishima Kei,” was more of a passive aggressive grunt than an introduction.  His hand, pale and rough, hung out between them, ragged nails extended almost like a defense.

An even rougher, slightly larger hand, enclosed his left hand. Instinctively, his right hand clasped over it, “Ushijima Wakatoshi,” was even more curt of a response. Mossy brown eyes had followed his hand as he retracted both of them.

“Sorry, I’m in a rush.” Gasped out before Tsukishima turned and ran in the direction of his building. His feet tapped, loudly, almost as loud as his heart thumped against his rib cage. Both had every right to be running as he escaped from something so normal, yet so foreign.

It was terrifying to Tsukishima, it was for everyone, but he had his reasons. In his dash, he thought of every reason why Ushijima Wakatoshi couldn’t be his soulmate. The gender, the personalities, their interests, and that Ushijima would destroy him.

Tsukishima had heard too many stories of artist’s losing their talent to create after meeting their soulmate. He didn’t want that, to lose the one thing in his life where he could accurately express himself and who he was. To give up those things, to give up art, would be to change who he was. He wasn’t ready for that, nor did he believe he ever would be. 

He wasn’t willing to be some stay at home husband, watching adopted kids and the family pets. He wasn’t going to cook dinner or host parties for the neighbourhood. None of that was who he was and he never planned to become like that. It would be like having the life drained from him.

At this point, with the sun becoming free from heavenly grasps, he shivered from both the warmth and terrible ideas. The light caught the different hues in his hair like goldfish in silver water, gleaming brightly as if all good things in the world had happened, today.

Even nature was mocking him, his hand pushing open the building door. As the cold metal shut behind him, he sighed in frustration. Tsukishima almost laughed at how late he was and walked to find his classroom.

______________________________________________________________________________   
  


The scent of lotus always welcomed him on the bridge, the breeze carrying it to his resting place. They had already began wilting and dying off, summer gone. Tsukishima grasped his sketchbook in hand, his feet dangling inches above pristine creek water. 

The gurgle was a friendly reminder of peace, this was his place. He had long since scared off others from the creek. Rocks and small beaches sat vacant in front of him, the sight soothing his irritated conscious. 

Calloused, sore fingers graced tan paper, pressing his thin tipped pen into deep lines and strokes. Passion was always a good way to describe Tsukishima’s work. It never failed to consist of bright colours, contrast, and a new view of things. He created pieces that drew out emotions, creating feelings. 

Tsukishima had spent more time in this surreal world of gurgling, leaf-covered water, since starting college, than even his own apartment. He came here to think and draw when the real world became too much and he could only handle so much stupidity.

The dreary sky had shifted from cloud cover to warm sunlight repeatedly throughout the day and he could relate the weather as he worrisomely grabbed from coloured pens, scraping against the paper. He, finally, looked down completely at his paper in a sceptical manner. 

Two golden, red as fire eyes met his, a face shaped of twigs and Brandy Roses. It’s maw twisted into a thorny smirk that tore the paper in a false movement. Its bright eyes unsettled him and mocked him with a feral glare.

Tempted to tear the paper down the middle, Tsukishima jumped at the loud clap of boot against wood. The creak of movement carried until he felt the worlds under himself bend. The person walked past before stopped.

He turned, face twisting nastily, ready to scare off another freshman who had wandered too far searching for a study space. His face only twisted even more upon seeing an unwelcome sight. The landscaper from before, Ushijima, sat down beside him, dangling his legs over the side of the bridge.

“I’m trying to draw,” Tsukishima sneered aggressively, peace officially disturbed. He doubted he would be able to finish anything as long as Ushijima was here. He flipped his book closed, tightly binding it. His pens slid stealthily back into their bag without him breaking his glaring eye contact.

He took this time to observe Ushijima, or rather, his appearance. His hair was a brown ebony, straight with the bangs swept to his left side. His piercing eyes eclipsed the sun, large and just simply, pretty. As close as they were, Tsukishima could even make freckles across his face from days outside, working. His skin was dark, darker than most Japanese people that he’s ever met and makes him question if Ushijima was truly japanese.  
Something shoved into his side, “You dropped this and forgot it,” Ushijima said. Tsukishima looked down at the pair of slightly dirtied, white headphones grasped in his hands. Ushijima’s hands where the same size as his, but meatier. Like they were made of sheer muscle from years of work, but at the same time, the nails were trimmed neatly. Despite their dirtiness, they weren’t cracked and his skin was smooth.

He wrapped his hand around the electronic without touching the other hand attached. “Thank you.” Tsukishima has already realized how brief and curt their conversations were and turned his head away, glad it was over. 

“So, when are you going to talk about them?” The tone of voice was steady, orotund, startling  Tsukishima, who gave him a puzzled look. “Paintings. The ones you make every morning.”

His throat constricted as Ushijima pulled up his sleeves. His worse fear came true as he gazed upon his own work, as brilliant as it was on his own arms. Words on his right arm littered with questions and how are you’s, they terrified him.  
Tsukishima inhaled deeply, reminded of the wilting lotus flowers that floated amoung leaves. He couldn’t think of what to do next, to lie or tell the truth.

In an instant, he pushed away from the bridge railing, standing and sweeping his stuff into his bag in disarray. Within seconds, he had his bag on his back and he was sprinting. Running from fear, from life and possibility of losing his freedom. That he would give up everything for something he didn’t want, someone he didn’t want.

He was almost gone behind the speckled trees when his heart squeezed. “Tsukishima Kei. May I, at least, see your chest?” In almost all perspectives that sounded obscene and inappropriate, but he understood what he meant.

Heart racing, he turned and lifted his sweater and shirt. The sun broke through the clouds again, blinding him in a halo of light. Tsukishima’s pale skin shone, proudly screaming of his dreams. The dragon ripping between his pects, slipping between fish and gulls, climbing over a teapot covering in books.

He turned, shirts pulled back down, and ran. “I saw your galaxy,” floated to his ears, seeming to scream  _ ‘faster, faster! Run far from here, where he’ll never look.’ _

Tsukishima ran until he got to his apartment, then he ran until he reached his door. He almost dropped his keys and was tempted to tear the lock off. His amber eyes flickered to his shaking hands as the door finally unlocked and gave under his shoving. 

Scrawled across his palm was, ‘  _ I’m sorry. _ ’ He last gazed upon the Lotus flower painting on his wall, the faint smell of the flowers and water still clung to him. Tsukishima decided he officially hated Lotus flowers and proceeded to faint from exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, bitch, you thought


End file.
